Posts Tagged ‘winter’

Winter Coming

October 29, 2017

I don’t know how I ever did it.

Looking now outside my window at the coming

Winter,

Remembering those many years of

Working

in the cold, going out in the gray

Mornings,

layering the clothes and the resolutions:

Get it done,

Get this house built for these good people and then

Another one,

and another one, day after day, week after week, month after month,

Year

after year, cutting, sawing, nailing, flailing, sometimes

Failing,

to have a good attitude, like right now. I don’t know

How

I ever did it.

It couldn’t have been me that

Did it.

Must have been someone else who

Did it,

someone else who went out into that cold, someone else who is

Stronger

than me because I am not

Strong.

Surely it was someone who knows more than I

Do

about how and why and when and where all this seasonal cycle and this

Life

OldLog

fits together into some kind of sense. And now I

Feel

that I can not do it again, cannot

Go

through another winter, even though it is easier

Now.

At this moment it doesn’t seem easier because . . .  well I don’t know

Why;

But I do know this. I do

Feel

that someone else  will have to

do it now, because looking out there just  now with the snow flurries I can’t see

How

I could have done it, or how I can ever do it

Again.

Someone else will have to

Do it

from here onward.

 

King of Soul

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The Snowbird Lesson

December 30, 2016

When I was a child in Mississippi, we had a book about birds of North America. For some reason, I know not what, I became fascinated by a certain bird that was pictured therein. It was the snowbird. Being a boy from the deep south, I had not seen much snow, which was a rarity where I come from.

Perhaps that rarity factor is the reason I was fascinated by the picture of the snowbirds in my little book.

Now I’m sixty-five, and living in the Blue Ridge mountains, which can be quite snowy this time of year.

Early this morning, December 30, we did discover the first snow of the season, and I have to tell ya– along with the whitey flakes the snowbirds made their visit known to us.

Snowbird

Later in life, When I had become young man, I became fascinated with a song called “Snowbird” that was a hit on the radio at that time, 1960’s. It was a tear-jerker tune, sung perfectly by a lady known as the Canadian songbird, Annie Murray.

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pq9bHd58-LA

“Snowbird” is a sad song about unrequited love.

“When I was young, my heart was young then too. Anything that it would tell me–that’s the thing that I would do.

But now I feel such emptiness within for the thing that I want most in life’s the thing that I can’t win. . .

and

“The breeze along the river seems to say, that she’ll only break my heart again, should I decide to stay.

So little snowbird take me with you when you go to that land of gentle breezes where the peaceful waters flow.”

. . . and yet, beneath the poem’s cold mantle of forlornness there is a trace of hope, a mention of “flowers that will come again in spring.

As it turned out, in my life the flowers did “come again in spring.” Those misadventures in love that later became a flood of heartache ultimately were buried in the fertile ground of life’s demands. Not only were seeds of new love sewn providentially into my life, but those seeds have yielded new flowers and more seeds.

Yet still, “the snowbird sings the song he always sang, and, as it turns out, eats the seeds always needs.

The snowbirds visited our house this morning, and wow! did they have a feast!

Snohello

Those little critters are much like the two humans–my wife and I–who find much joy in providing seed for them during this snowy season. There’s Snowy on the ledge, and his wifey down in the tree:

SnoMates

Thanks to love and marriage, which go together, you know, like a horse and carriage, or like . . . snowbirds and snow, my life has turned out to be a love feast instead of the festival of the broken-hearted that might have been, had not a wonderful loving woman come in and changed all that lovesick blues to pure white marital love, 37 years of it.

I wouldn’t trade marital love for anything in the world. It’s so much better than the broken heart that might have become bitterness. Thank God for true love that is lasting and faithful.

Here’s another version of the song, “Snowbird,” as recorded by the songwriter, Hank Snow.

   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JBwqqH0LTyI

And here’s a parting pic of little Snowy with his Finchy friend.

Snowb&finch

Glass half-Full

February

February 14, 2016

Woodpkr

Little woodpecker out my window pane

why you have on you spotty self that little red mane?

Did you flitter by the bird store for that sporty red hat

or did your mama give you that?

It’s pretty good though; you got that little red spot;

makes me appreciate just what you got,

a lively color to brighten this wintry scene,

so by this weary human you now be seen.

Thanks for stopping by, oh little friend of mine;

come, display you red spot any time.

StripesBird

And you, you little sparrow with stripy breast;

I hope you know we’ve given you the best

of bird seed that human money can buy;

we put it out so you’d stop by.

This wintry scene is dreary and cold,

and this man inside be weary and old,

but so glad to share a seed or two

with stripy little critter like you.

Yes, we be so happy to provide

for critters who on the wind can ride,

One day my soul will glide away from here;

will you be there to help me steer?

Glass half-Full

Bare Bach, Vivid Vivaldi

November 14, 2015

BareBrnchs

Summer’s done and leaves are gone:

branches bare, and death’s begun

to take its toll on the living one

whose active hands are not yet done.

 

Sound, summoned from somewhere deep inside,

strikes from string an imaginary ride

upon vibrations far and wide.

Here is life, and death must hide.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5bVRTtcWmXI

While bare branches inspire a sparse domain

‘twixt Bach and Perlman’s music without name,

some strenuous feat is being strewn upon a stringy frame

as spider spins his precious game.

WebCedr

Bare-branched strains give way to woven strands

so, through ages, some vivid virtuoso stands

to spin a web of Stradivarius demands;

Vivaldi’s winter surrounds Samuelsen’s hands.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9KxzuY0fJ-s

 

Smoke

Life cycle of Art

March 1, 2015

Oh, wintry flakes pile up on our dwelling place

while summer’s green be gone with little trace

until one day stalactite ice gets a grip,

and another day begins to drip.

IciTreeSky

Soon the forest floor, laid with humus deep

will send up shoots and begin to peep;

from little bits and bites that life discarded long ago

life will resume its spritely show.

Mushrm4

Then peeps pop up from forest floor,

their thriving purpose soon to restore;

with us inside our dwelling safe and sound

this man considers what is all around.

ReaderStatu

See, sprouting life is nestled in a natural place,

‘though we have assigned unto it all some human trace.

And so, as if the real thing were not interesting enough,

we go and imitate life with our arty stuff.

TreeInStone

And though we so cleverly form our stuff into some crafty work

to promote our art as masterpiece, or some other querk,

we really do just throw our weight around in this natural world

as bull in china shop, while shards get hurled.

LittleMosaic

That movement comes; this stillness goes

until living dies; then dying throws

its soulful cycle through an open door,

returning it to the earthen floor.

MosaicFloor2
Selah.

Glass Chimera

The tender part of January

January 4, 2015

January is tender just now,

not knowing why or how

ice melts slow, and snow is no-show;

it may not be so, tomorrow.

Grayness yawns from the sleepy sky,

while dripping branches cry,

lulling leafless hardwoods to sleep.

Beneath the leafy deep, crawly critters creep.

They hunker down ’til spring,

and whatever that might bring.

But now they know, oh, they know

that slipping silence waits for greens to grow.

I can’t see the glassy pane

that insulates my hearth-warm heart

from nipping, dripping, misting rain,

‘though it keeps me apart, to ponder winter’s art.

Here, inside this cozy room

fingers slide on black keys, and white.

They thrust; they glide, and peck a tune

from cloud-borne, dispersing light.

From spring’s remembered cumulus sky,

and summer’s drench that turned August dry,

from autumn’s golden high, and sad goodbye,

this gentle wint’ring brings a lullaby.

Glass half-Full